Put Out Your Beating Heart
by sacrenoirr
Summary: Something stopped him. Something wrapped its hands around his throat and constricted him from speaking any further, didn't let him say the next words. Why? He would mean it. After all these years, after dinners and dances and long nights awake in bed and long mornings awake in bed, how could he not mean it? Just three words, Hal, he scolded himself.


**A/N: **All characters are owned by the BBC. This was all written spur of the moment and posted just as quickly so forgive me forsome mistakes. Anyways, read and enjoy and review if you can!

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Perhaps that was his cue. He didn't expect it to be so soon nor did he expect it to be any later. Her eyes, wide and hopeful, stared at him, focused and steady. She would have been an excellent vampire, he thought. How can such round, doe eyes look so intimidating now? He wanted to shrink away but it was too late.

His lips had already parted and that breathless, "I" was already intermingling in the air. He could taste it, knew she felt it. Her body was tense against his. Was she cold? Was his body not enough warmth for her anymore? Those unnerving eyes stared at him. Those delicate ears waited to hear the rest that was left dangling in the air.

Something stopped him. Something wrapped its hands around his throat and constricted him from speaking any further, didn't let him say the next words. Why? He would mean it. After all these years, after dinners and dances and long nights awake in bed and long mornings awake in bed, how could he not mean it? Just three words, Hal, he scolded himself.

His eyes flickered over to the television box playing the cursed movie. He suddenly found the male character in the film vile. How dare he say those words? How dare he utter it so breathlessly and so simply to the woman that this idea is placed in every woman's mind, in _her _mind. She has expectations now, expectations that he wasn't sure if he could fulfill.

He could! No, he couldn't. It's just words! It's not.

He doesn't need to say it anyway. She probably knows.

But as he let the silence settle in and just shook his head and laugh nervously. Let himself fill in those words with other words, "Can't believe you're making us watch this. It is absolutely horrendous. The writing was an utter disaster. Next time, I choose the film we watch." Sliding off his seat, he grabbed the remote and changed the channel, tried to find something of a less romantic nature. He tried to not notice her eyes flicker downwards, and her body become more strained when he sat next to her again. She didn't know. Probably thought he was calling them a disaster, calling her horrendous. She wasn't.

No, she probably knows.

Perhaps that was his cue. The pub's lighting was dimmed and even then, her face glowed like….pardon the cliché, but, an angel who descended from heaven and couldn't turn off that radiating light. It would be against her nature to stop being so beautiful.

His thumb stroked the back of her hand in lazy circles. Her skin was so soft to the touch, after years of their retransformation, he wondered if it still felt strange to her. In the beginning it was, he remembered. He remembered how she took her time touching the walls, walking down the stairs, savoring each piece of food in her mouth. She still did all those things, but with a bit less concentration.

She had started it off. He noticed, she herself could not say it either. She too had let the "I" dangle before them. I, me, myself seemed to be unable to transform itself to we, us and it would seem a miracle would be needed to transform anything into _you_. He could have stepped in, could have took the lead and said it himself. He had practiced it plenty of times in the mirror, watched his lips stretch and purse with every word. It was easy. He had said it, sung it, trilled it plenty of times. But, now, when given the opportunity, he couldn't say it.

Why? His feelings for her surpassed any sort of reasoning. It was a part of his new existence now. She was a part of him as air was necessary for his lungs now. So, what hindered him from speaking? What sort of demon cut out his tongue and reattach it when the moment was left unseized?

She continued with, "'m really full. Maybe we should start heading home now?" Her eyes averted themselves away from him.

He nodded, quickly, added a curt, "Yes, yes of course."

He should have said it. Should have found some way, maybe even written it down. That would've been acceptable, wouldn't it? That would have been romantic. That would have spoken loads more than that movie they watched had even attempted. But, as the thought lingered, he feared even then, his grip on the pencil would slack and all that would be left on the note was an "I". Perhaps it was the best that they didn't say it. They knew.

Paying the tab, they walked outside and faced the brisk air. She walked ahead, faster and he didn't even catch up. His pace was slow, a little too slow. Thoughts weighed him down, casted themselves around his legs and forced him to stop chasing her, stop walking side by side with her, trail behind her.

Because…

Why couldn't she say it?

Perhaps there was no cue. Maybe, cues were part of those romantic films infiltrating and stretching their hold on his mind. She was rather silent tonight as she sipped her freshly brewed cup of tea. He insisted on keeping his back facing hers, tried to busy himself with washing the dishes. Marigolds and soap high up his arms, he washed every plate, spoon, fork, knife, and cup until they screamed their spotlessness. At least, they spoke more than they did.

Day after day, the longer those final two words were left unspoken, the quieter everything became. Supper only had a few words now. Generic things like "Pass the salt, please" or "I can wash that, don't worry". Even Tom found it jarring, their silence. He tried to compensate, talked about his day at work or about Allison and how fantastic she was doing at Uni and all the things she was teaching him in return. But even then, silence took its hold and Tom became just as silent.

Sometimes, just like that night, the silence became too much. Slipping off the marigolds, he turned to face her, watched her spine curve as she hunched. He watched her jumper slip off her shoulder, exposing bare skin because it was three sizes too big, but she liked that and he, admittedly, liked that too. But, as much as they liked or didn't like, there was a distance between them now.

Silence said it all.

She must have sensed it, sensed his eyes boring in her skin. Because she had a cue, "Hal, do you have anything to say to me?" Her back was still facing him but she had turned her head ever so slightly. Her eyes downcast. He drank in all the details of her face and how even the horrible lighting in the kitchen didn't change her beauty. He was memorizing, he realized. What for? For goodbye. Why goodbye? Because, she hasn't said it. She never will.

She knows.

But he doesn't.

"Do you?" he asked.

Silence.

Perhaps there was no cue because they weren't the two couples in the film. Perhaps they were lost puzzle pieces struggling to force themselves together with no avail because they feared that if they gave up on each other, what else was out there for them? There was no cue. They didn't belong, so why did they try? However, this didn't stop Allison and Tom from dragging them out of the house and back to the museum. It was Tom and Allison's anniversary, and yet they felt the need to drag himself and Alex out of the house. They were a strange pair, but at least they were a pair.

It was the same exhibit, same prehistoric relics and artifacts. He mused over one of the sharpened weaponry in the glass case, but his eyes always fell on her. He made sure they kept their distance. They no longer touched, no longer kissed, no longer fight the distance, instead they drifted, like land masses on the rough ocean waters. He watched her, press a few buttons, didn't even stay around for the perhaps invigorating audio recording describing whatever it was. She was always like that. Curious, but always moving.

He watched her eye the cavern opening of the museum and he felt the urge to follow her, she was his anchor. They needed distance but this was too far. When he reached where she had walked into, he saw the wooly mammoth model, unchanged even after so many years, on that fateful day when blood thirst still pulsed at his gums. But now, he didn't have the matchbox between his fingers and hold them shakily as she led him into the dark. Now, she just led him even if she didn't know it. She stood, back pressed against the rough, rocky wall, and eyed the figures. She looked sad, alone, hollow…like them. He felt the need to sweep her into his arms, say the words to help ease the pain. Could he? Maybe not.

Taking a few steps closer to her, his lips twitched into an uneasy smile. "We're pretty fucked up." His voice had startled her. Her head jerked up quickly and her eyes were wide again. "Sorry," he pointed to the mammoth, "Elephant in the room." He borrowed her confidence, back when they knew next to nil about each other. She had uttered those same words with a breathless and nervous tone but with confidence and bluntness all the same.

She remained quiet, her eyes trailed back to the exhibit, although he did see a twitch of a smile come through before she stopped it. He missed that smile, missed those lips, the ones he would wake up to….before they decided sharing a room, sharing a bed was unnecessary.

As the echo of silence drifted in, he searched his brain quickly to find a way to stop it because once it settled it, it would never leave, he'd lose her. "I can't say it," he admitted. "The last time I said it….it was to Sylvie," 200 years ago, he failed to add. "And I had reverted and killed her. If love transcends all, then those words were false." He could remember her disappointment, how she didn't even fight back when he drained her, those eyes remained wide and open, even in her death, her eyes never lost the glint of disappointment.

"Well, good thing you killed me before," she answered, both teasingly and dry.

He laughed, quietly. The first laugh that had escaped his lips for months.

"That's why I can't say it. But, I do…I do feel so passionately for you, Alex. I swear." Moving so that he stood before her, he took hold of her hands, stroked the back of them, let the softness of her skin linger in his touch.

"You do?" she asked quietly to which he nodded earnestly, and said yes several times. Her lips parted, a sigh escaped. Was it one of relief? He hoped it was. What if it wasn't? He'd know.

Her teeth bit down her lips, turning it a brighter red. "I guess…I couldn't say it because that would mean I'd forgive you."

"Forgive me?"

"For killing me."

Oh.

"It's not something I can truly get over, you have to understand." I do, but he didn't respond, he let her continue, "I never got to become my own person. And if I say _those_ words that means I'd fully relieve you of those memories and my pain and I don't know….I don't think I can do that."

"Ever?"

"At least, not now."

Letting go of one hand, he brought it up to push back her hair that covered her face, and brought it down to her temple, her cheeks, her jaw. "We still have time."

"We do?"

"We're a work in progress. We're…human. We're fucked up, remember?"

"I do."

He smiled, genuinely smiled and it was his cue, "I can't say I love you, Alex Millar but I have passionate feelings for you."

Those lips curved upwards, those tired eyes had their glint of life return. "And I can't say I love you, Hal Yorke but I guess I have passionate feelings for you, too."

He watched her laugh briefly before kissing her, urgently. God, he missed those lips.

She pulled away slightly and whispered, "Hal, the mammoth's in the room."

"Who cares about the bloody mammoth, anyways," he muttered before pulling her closer to him, pressing his lips to hers, felt every sensation melt into him, into her. They let the silence settle in, let it stretch out its arms and crack its back after a long nights rest. This time, the silence drew them together.

Because…

Well, they knew.


End file.
